


All I can hear - I, Me, Mine

by chapmanspipe



Series: Ohnothimagen [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Let It Be/Get Back Sessions, M/M, My First Fanfic, and a bit of character exploration for me, and projecting, can be read as gen for lennon and McCartney, it's just fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2019-11-17 17:46:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18103376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chapmanspipe/pseuds/chapmanspipe
Summary: George is shy and dismissive of a song of his, and of course, Ringo is a good friend and tries to glue a piece of him together.





	1. All I can hear

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching “Let It Be”, or at least trying to on our crappy dorm internet, when the scene of “I, Me, Mine” came on. I was taken aback by George’s shyness and dismissal of his own song… While taking it to Ringo first, apparently. Don't shoot me for shipping Starrison I'm just a poor gay projecting on his faves :c
> 
> NOT BETA'D FOR NOW

“Hey Ringo, do you… have a moment?” George’s question came out slightly hesitant, slightly shy, which Ringo found… weird. Their youngest was always confident around him, always smiling, always ready to joke off. Always came to see the drummer when he had an idea for a song, so they could plug it to ‘McLennon’ together. What made this song so different? Perhaps the fight a few days earlier, over the guitar part to “Hey Jude” with Paul… and so many other small things that got to George. Ringo would ask about it after he’d heard the song.

“Got a new song, Geo? Let me hear it, then.” He said with an encouraging smile, wiping some of his bangs to the side. George’s warm brown eyes shone with glee. They sat down, some place away from the others and the main set for the film. Ringo yawned, getting to film here at 8 am was proving to be more difficult and exhausting than they all would have thought before. John got irritated more quickly, which ended with Paul getting irritated more easily, and that ended with them all shouting at each other, Ringo trying to make peace between the others. They would all head home steaming and return to the cycle the next day… Tedious, actually, if you think of it. No wonder George wanted to quit. Paul and John looked their way, seemingly uninterested, and two crew members came to listen.

“Look, I don’t care if you don’t want it…” George mumbled before strumming his guitar and singing:

All through' the day  
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine.  
All through' the night  
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine.  
George couldn’t look at Ringo for too long, afraid of seeing him bored, or dismissing the song.  
In between glances he could see him close his eyes for a bit, tapping along and clearly enjoying the melody. He finally looked the drummer in the eyes after he’d finished, seeing a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes. “Sounds really good, Hazza. What is it about?” Ringo asked, intrigued. It sounded so… Personal and soft. A soft waltz, pretty romantic, actually.  
“It’s… I see it a lot in these meditation books you know.” George lied. _It’s also about greed and well, the band_ , he thought, _and you_. Ringo let out a small laugh. “You and your spiritual ways.”

The drummer got up and put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it in a comforting way. “We could plug it to Paul and John, if you want. Or put some drums under it before we do so?” George nodded at him, smiling lightly. “If you can back me with the plug, that’d be nice. I can play it for them, and we can put the song together organically.” It was hard to get more than just a light smile out of George nowadays, Ringo thought. But it was definitely worth it. The big smiles and jokes the guitarist kept for him made his heart flutter. Always had. Even back in Hamburg, after the young lad had overcome his shyness and nervousness, he would crack jokes with Ringo alone, hopping on an extra chair next to him at the drums, trying to learn it too. In the USA, where George started to feel quite anxious and short tempered because he needed some time away from people, admitting to feeling more at ease when Ringo would joke around with him, one night in a hotel he couldn’t remember the name of. He loved their closeness, like when George taught him how to play guitar. It had taken a while, but Geo was so patient, so careful and kind to him. It wasn’t fair, all of this, Ringo thought.  
While Paul and John treated George like their -sometimes irritating- little brother, Ringo treated him like an equal, like he mattered as much as the other two. Ringo had found out that George had always looked up to John, so whenever they dismissed one of his songs, or laughed about it, he was visibly upset. There had been enough instances of that through the years, a few of those lead to actual fights and Ringo having to take George to get a cuppa or get him home. He knew that the guitarist had heaps of songs in notebooks, some were really good already, some needed more work done on them. Ringo sometimes had the feeling that George Martin held their Hazza back in favour of Paul and John.

The cameras panned away from them, clearly not interested in ‘the other two’. George let out a sigh of relief.  
“You know. It’s getting to me. The fighting, the filming, getting up this early. Yoko seems a nice enough lady but… I don’t know. What if we’d bring our wives in, ey Rings? This feels like a sacred place, in a way.” George admitted softly, looking at Yoko and John snogging in the distance. He looked like he was far away, turned into himself. Ringo patted his head, making George jump up a little, returning to the studio mentally. Ringo himself wasn’t too keen on the cameras either, it felt like they didn’t have any privacy whatsoever, like people would scrutinise them later on, pick their fights apart, judge them on this film. George was a private person, he didn’t like being in the spotlight, even less so after their traumatising times in the US and especially the Philippines. He used to love touring until the Shea Stadium, where people just came to look at them “like animals in the Zoo, Ritchie. I’m not an animal, I want to make music for people who enjoy listening to us.”, as George had put it. Ringo had to agree with him.  
“Say, Georgie. Let’s go on a vacation, after these sessions. Even when it’s just your garden.” George let out a bark of laughter, nodding in agreement.

“I think I want to go somewhere warm, Rings.” He winked at the drummer, bringing back their old endearments for each other. It brought back warm memories of sharing an apartment, sleeping in one room to save costs.

Paul approached the duo, scraping his throat to get their attention. “I heard you have a new song, Geo?” he asked coldly, one of his thin eyebrows raised. George just nodded, unsure of what to say. Should he offer to play it? Ringo could still feel the tension between the two, a reminder that Paul didn’t just forgive and forget.


	2. All through the day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions tensions!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t hate Paul, I love him with all my heart, but this is more or less from George’s perspective? Who avoided him for a few years?  
> Short chapter again, thanks for all the kudos and encouragement <3 enjoy!!  
> Peace and Love,   
> Max

Ringo came back to stand behind George, placing his hand on his shoulder, trying to express some support to the man. “I can play a bit if you want, Macca?” he said, hesitantly. The man just nodded.  
George sipped a bit of tea, feeling those scrutinising hazel eyes on him. His hands were slightly sweaty, like that time when he first sang “Don’t Bother Me” to them. Ringo’s hand on his shoulder did feel good, though. At least someone still liked him well enough.

John heard the soft tunes of their guitarist and smiled. “Fancy a waltz, my lady?” he asked Yoko. She smiled at him, softly. And he swept with her through the room, on the soft tunes of George’s new song. Ringo had to smile at the sight. For as much as each of them didn’t like her presence, she seemed to be very good for John. _It’ll just take a little until we all get to know each other better, and then we’ll solve all of our tensions_ , he thought, forever the optimistic.

Paul nodded to George. “It’s good. What is it about?”  
“Well. I was reading up on some Buddhist texts and it mentioned I Me Mine in referral to the ego, and how we must overcome this to…” Paul cut in: “So it’s about us. The band?”  
George looked up at him, pressing his lips together in irritation. “A bit.” He answered, truthfully. Paul only nodded at the statement. Ringo frowned at the conversation. He knew how this would end tonight. Paul would pick at George’s arrangement, them both being stubborn and perfectionistic, get more on his nerves, and they would both explode. Again. Or John would do something, or not do something… He saw a pair of dark brown eyes under a fringe look up at him, apologising. The drummer unknitted his eyebrows, smiled slightly, and made his way to his drum set. He had a little idea on how to play to this. It would be difficult, but worth the sparkle in George’s eyes.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I can’t do this, George, it’s too hard! Why do you have to switch so many times anyway?” Paul exclaimed, exasperated. “And John, if you could please get your ass over here to play, that would be bloody nice.” He shouted at the still dancing couple. John grinned, and shouted back: “No, it’s too hard to learn.” Paul’s cheeks started to turn red, and he huffed in irritation.  
Meanwhile, George didn’t say anything, just packed his stuff, in angry silence. Ringo swallowed. This won’t end well…  
“I think it’s a good time to take a break, don’t you think so Paul?” Ringo was trying to save the session, George knew it. Paul didn’t even answer, just stormed off. It all seemed to amuse John endlessly, he was snickering in the corner with Yoko.  
George didn’t care. He wrote a song, a good one, on this specific topic, and it all happened. Like some sort of stupid circle they had caught themselves in. Ringo tried to catch up with him in the hallway.  
“George! Wait, please!” this was enough to slow the guitarist down a little. Richard was his only ally in all of this, no need to piss him off as well. He only meant well.

Ringo put his hand on George’s underarm. “I think it’s worth the time we put in the song, Geo. I don’t mind.” He smiled at the guitarist, trying to lift his mood.  
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Was all he got back.  
“Will you at least join me for dinner? I understand if you don’t want to, Georgie.” Ringo could see that George was trying to regain his posture. The guitarist closed his eyes, breathed through his nose for a while to calm down. He smiled as he opened his eyes, seeing Ringo’s blue ones staring at him warmly. He got a big smile back and felt an arm around his waist for a short moment.  
“Come one, I’ve found this place, they have magnificent curry over there!”

They returned back to the studio after their meal, where Ringo told George stories about anything and everything to get his mind off the recording sessions. As they stood in front of the door, George was lingering behind.  
“Rings?” Ringo turned around, lifting his eyebrows in answer. George stared at his feet.  
“Thanks for sticking with me. You shouldn’t have to entertain me and carry my bad mood.” He mumbled. The drummer just smiled at him, and stretched his arms out to the youngest member of their band, George accepted the hug with an even bigger smile. “I’m so sorry Ritchie, so sorry I have to drag you down with me.” Ringo stroked his hair, held a hand under the man’s chin and winked. “No need to feel sorry for me, mate. We’re in this together, right? You’re my brother.”  
They were so close, George could feel Ringo’s breathe on his neck. He looked the drummer in the eyes. He had a nice face, friendly. Everything was slightly big on Ringo, it matched his big heart. George was all angles and bones. He hugged the drummer tightly again, revelling in the warmth and the softness of the other.  
“Let’s head back now, shall we?” Ringo hated to break the soft warmness of the hug, but he knew it meant a lot to George, who rarely gave out random hugs. They were just about to get in when Paul opened the door, glowering at the pair.  
“A short break, huh Ringo?” His words were short, sharp. Ringo smiled in apology. “Yeah, I’m sorry, Paul, we underestimated the time it would take us to…” Paul waved at him, dismissing his excuse. He sighed. “John has a new idea for a song. We should get on with that now before he loses interest.”  
“But, my song?” George asked. Paul shrugged and ignored him. All of George’s good mood disappeared. Ringo tried to save a bit of it by touching the youngest, but got only a headshake back.  
He swallowed, preparing for the worst. _This album is going to be the death of our band. Please, whoever is out there for us, please let it not be that way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading up on the song and eh yeah I totally missed the how and when it was recorded oops well it’s fan FICTION and no one will give me slack for not getting it right? For the other chapters I've been looking up what was written when so it won’t happen again :’) I’m very nitpicky about this, so very sorry if you didn’t care in the first place xD


	3. All through the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support!  
> It does a lot to my poor old bitter soul <3

**February 1963 – EMI Studios**  
Paul crossed his arms, one eyebrow lifted sceptically. John was plucking his guitar absentmindedly, not even looking at the youngest member. “We can’t release _that_ song, and you know that. It’s a Quarrymen song, not a Beatles song.” George Martin sighed. “But… Paul and I wrote it? John, you thought it was a good song, right?” the guitarist pleaded. John smiled apologetically at him. “You know we can’t, son. Doesn’t matter how well it’s written.” Paul put his hand on George’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Geo. I really like it as well. Maybe some other album, yeah?” Ringo saw the small pout on George’s face, and the sigh of defeat was reflected in his whole stance. He felt for the boy, but had to agree with the others. They needed to go forward, not looking back at their time as The Quarrymen. _To the toppermost of the poppermost_.  
  
A loud crash in the corner of the studio shook Ringo out of his daydream. A very dishevelled looking John Lennon came out of the dust of what once was a rickety closet that held their small percussion material. “Sorry, fellas. Seems I’m not as stable as I thought I was and neither was that closet,” he giggled.  
“Are you high, John?” Paul inquired, not very impressed by it all either. _It’s either that or he’s so furious,_ Ringo thought. The guitarist just giggled in answer, seating himself behind the piano.  
“Let’s work on the song now, okay, Macca? Just to keep you happy.”  
“Yeah Paul, the man just came out of the closet and destroyed the thing, give him some space.” Ringo joked, camping the last sentence up a bit.  
George came back from their kitchen, carrying two cuppas. “Here’s ye tea, Ringo.” “Ta. We’re going to work on John’s idea now,” the drummer informed him, taking a sip before seating himself behind his drums. George took up his spot next to the instrument, plucking a melody, looking at John intensely. Yoko was saying something to him, giving him the most endearing smile. _Perhaps she’s not as bad as I thought she was. Racist crap you were thinking here Hazza._ She looked his way, he smiled at her, as to apologise for the hateful thoughts he had but never let out. _Good thing I do think before I act sometimes,_ he thought to himself. Yoko just smiled back and nodded, as if she understood what he wanted to say. She’s a smart woman, that. The press was horrible to her, and she just took it with stride. Both her and John just rolled their eyes at the tabloid’s headlines on them, sometimes picking apart the articles for being either racist or just factually wrong.  
_Just tell her you’re sorry for all the horrible treatment, Harrison. It won’t hurt._  
George Martin interrupted his thoughts with a loud: “Dig It, take 1!” as the rest of the band was starting on the song.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“… and they just ran away! With my goddamn SHIRT!” Loud laughter erupted from around the drum kit, where they were still seated after a good jam, (re)telling stories with and about fans. Ringo’s fans were voted to be the worst, as they either tried to steal something of him or tried to cut his hair. They all hadn’t been so close to each other in weeks. George felt lighter, even after that disappointing start in the morning. He sipped a bit of his tea, pulling a face when he tasted the… salt? And saw Paul grin at him mischievously. _That fucking TOSSER_ , he thought, but as soon as Ringo started giggling, he was a goner too. They all looked at each other, and for a short while, everything fell back in place. Their problems with each other and themselves were shelved for a few moments.  
“Well fellas, I’m hungry. Anyone want to come with me for a bite?” Ringo proposed.  
“If it’s on you Ritch, yeah.” George smiled. Ringo frowned and sighed, why was it always him?  
“I’m good! I’ll send Nell to the shops.” John said. The two others looked at Paul expectantly, who shrugged and gave in. _For old times’ sake,_ he thought.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 **February 20 th 1964**  
**USA**  
  
“Paul… I can’t breathe…”  
Paul turned around quickly, barely hearing their youngest member. George looked pale, eyes opened wide and breathing erratically. He looked horribly stressed out and …scared? The bassist took him by his arm, looking around for more support. He had never seen cocky, young Hazza like this. It made him nervous, this open display of affection. It didn’t calm the other man down, though.  
“I’m here, Georgie.” He heard from behind them, saw a bejewelled hand on George’s shoulder.  
“Can you walk?” Paul asked softly, seeing how George was wobbling about. He didn’t answer, he seemed to be focused on something else entirely.  
“We’re almost inside, Geo, hold on.” John added. They tried to give him some space while supporting him, to no avail. The crowd was too much. Paul felt a bony hand grab his, something he wouldn’t allow, normally, but George was clearly very upset. It was visible in his young eyes. After what seemed like hours, they finally reached the foyer, unfortunately packed with press. Paul threw his arm around George’s shoulders, Ringo held him up by the waist, both trying to calm him down. John kept everyone at bay with a sneer. Once in the elevator, they let George collapse on the floor. He was shivering all over, still breathing too quickly, still holding Paul’s hand in a vice like grip, leaning his head on Ringo’s knee. They didn’t know what to do, so they looked at Brian. Eppy squatted next to him, patting him on the back.  
“I think he has a nervous breakdown. I’ll see if I have something against it when we’re in our rooms.” He concluded. They managed to hoist George up and in the room he shared with Ringo, retreating to the bathroom and parking George in front of the toilet, he looked like he was about to be sick. He did throw up a little, but his breathing calmed down. They couldn’t hear anything in here. They all sat down, shoulder to shoulder, exhausted, stressed out by all the girls screaming. “If I’m not deaf after this tour, I’ll go to Church every Sunday, I swear,” John proclaimed. They snickered, even George seemed to return to himself. He crawled to Ringo, and positioned himself so that his long legs crossed Paul’s and John’s legs, head on the drummer’s chest. George closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying their closeness. “Thanks lads.” He whispered. “I’m sorry for that.”  
“No problem, Hazza. We know you’d do this for us too if it’d happen to us.” Paul said, patting his knee. The others nodded in agreement. George allowed Ringo to hold him and touch his hair.  
_He must be really out of it,_ John thought. George only allowed any of them to hug him or touch him when he was feeling unwell or when he was drunk. It looked rather queer, the two of them, but if it worked, well, who was he to judge. They were all basically brothers at this point.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
After another “Dig It” session, Paul had seated himself next to John, sighing. George and him had had another discussion about wanting to do a gig or not, and, frankly, John grew tired of their almost constant bickering. They had to decide quickly, though.  
“Still stubborn, our Georgie?”  
“Can you talk about it to him? Cos, you know, whenever we talk about it, we have certain rules, like George said.. ‘what do you wanna do’, he says, no films, but, you know, it’s wrong, that. Very wrong because you don’t know how it’s gonna turn out. Like, now, this is a film and now he doesn’t mind it.”  
John sighed and nodded, to show he was listening to Paul. _I don’t care, Macca, tell that to Geo himself, not me_ , he thought. Paul went on about how George didn’t want to do anything with an audience, no tv-shows. The anecdote about their worst day after Hamburg didn’t add anything to the conversation, in John’s opinion. He did want to play in front of an audience again, to replace their fear and nervousness around playing live. He didn’t know how much George hated playing in front of an audience, but he knew enough to know that he wouldn’t do it even if you’d say he’d never have to play live again after it. Their other option was to never tour or play live again, which would be a loss to themselves in the first place. They both understood George, but Paul was adamant about doing something.  
“Ya know. If he doesn’t want to play anymore, Clapton could always come in.” John blurted out.  
Paul looked at him in disbelief, but seemed to see how it could fit… Maybe then they could finally be a real band again…  
  
George almost dropped Ringo’s coffee when he heard that. Surely they wouldn’t…?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The heap of text by Paul is transcribed from "Let It Be", just so you know c:
> 
> On the subject of them being in the bathroom together: they actually did this in the USA, when the screaming became too overwhelming.  
> George carried a disliking to touring and standing in front of an audience well into his later life, and, to me, it's only logical that he must have had some panic attack or another, since touring caused him a deep trauma? Idk what else could have caused it.
> 
> EDIT: I know it's all over the place but eh, yeah I felt like writing this. idk I might change things a bit around later.


	4. Frightened of leaving it

When George came back, he seemed to be in the worst mood Ringo had ever seen him. His brown eyes clouded over and cold, ignoring the drummer’s thankful smile. Luckily the cameras were off for today.  
“I’m going to join George for a bit, nag to him about the songs I want in the next album. Pass the message will ya?” he grumbled. Ringo just nodded as George stomped away. _Sometimes you seem too mature for your age but then there’s moments like these_ , the drummer thought, with a sigh.  
Paul, John and Yoko soon joined him in the room, Paul played some tunes on the piano, while John and Yoko just took off in the corner, on their own. This didn’t sit well with Ringo, not at all. It broke his heart, even. He came down from his platform, to sit next to Paul.  
“So, eh, Paul. I-eh… If we’re doing this gig, in the end. Can we play Octopus’ Garden?” Paul blinked at him, then started to beam a smile.  
“Of course, Ritchie. Like the old days, hey? One or two songs for our drummer.” He patted their drummer on the shoulder, appreciative of his support. _The man has too big a heart,_ Paul thought.  
Initially, he hadn’t understood George, who was adamant about adding Ringo to their band, after dumping Pete. Hadn’t understood why the otherwise so shy and introverted young lad had been taking him to shows to see _Rory and the Hurricanes_ , worming his way to the backstage area to talk with the older man. He had seen him giggle about any odd joke, however unfunny. It dawned on him, now. Had George…? They had met in Hamburg, and stayed the night at the Hurricanes’ hotel room a few times…  
  
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**October 1960**  
Hamburg  
“Where the FUCK is that bleeding git?!” John shouted, pacing about in the small room he shared with Paul. It was pretty bare, cold and damp. The only source of light was a small lightbulb that dangled from the murky ceiling.  
“Do I look like his Mum, John? How would I know?” Paul shouted back, scowling at his friend. John was _furious_ , livid. John turned on his heels, glaring at the other man.  
“He’s your little queer friend!” Pete Best snickered at that, earning a scowl from both Stuart and Paul. They all turned when they heard the door to their dungeon slam, a throaty “fuck” and some boots stomping in a quick tempo, and there he was, the lost son. George looked like he had been caught in a hurricane, hair all over the place, wearing a shirt that was definitely not his, because it was 1. Too big, 2. Teddy Boy style, with ruffles all over the front.  
“Sorry I’m late, I had a nice sleep in at Rory’s place,” the boy explained, smiling, trying to catch his breath. The others all looked at each other, puzzled.  
“How…?” Paul started.  
“Rory’s _place_?” Pete looked utterly shocked.  
“Whose shirt is that even?” Stuart asked quietly, pointing at the offending piece of clothing.  
George looked down, frowning. He plucked at the shirt, smiling lightly.  
“Shit, I’m wearing Ringo’s…” he exclaimed softly, “I’ll have to return it today.” He looked at the others, like they would offer him a solution.  
Paul raised his eyebrows. George was a messy lad, yes, but this was a whole new level of absent-mindedness. He turned to John, who had been awfully quiet. The tall man looked dark.  
“We don’t have fucking time to get back to your _boyfriend_ , son. Get dressed, wash your face, chop chop!” John shouted at their youngest member. George cowered a bit, taken aback by John’s sudden anger and harsh tone.  
“Hey, John, lay off the boy. He’s making friends! Making our job easier, he is. No more babysittin’!” Stuart tried, worming himself between both guitarists.  
“Piss off,” George laughed, scurrying away to the dirty bathroom of the Bambi Kino.  
Paul took John aside, not too pleased with the way he was treating his youngest friend.  
“What the fuck was that about, Lenny? George’s not queer. You know he’s not. He’s shagged as many birds as you!” Paul hissed. John just scoffed. Paul didn’t know what else to say, so he left it at that. George was ready soon, so they set off to the Kaiserkeller.  
  
“Das war Rory and the Hurricanes! Vielen Dank für’s zuhören, auch von der Band. Bitte bleiben Sie noch eine Weile, in einer Stunde stehen die Beatles an! Die Bar ist vorne, danke schön!“ Bruno Koschmider announced, waving the band off.  
They all went backstage, wiping the sweat off their foreheads. Rory was the first to see their ‘rivals’, John wearing a particularly surly face today.  
“Aaahh, the SECOND best Liverpudlian Hamburg band. How are things, Lennon?”  
“You would know, you had George over all night.” John answered him, glaring at the lanky 17 year old. Rory smiled, mentioning Ringo to come closer.  
“That’s our friend Ringo’s fault, I’m afraid, John. They seem to get along well.”  
John looked Ringo up and down, a flash of recognition went over his face.  
“You’re the man who always requests these obscure blues numbers! George thought you looked scary,” he reminisced, turning to the boy, who promptly smiled at both him and Ringo, bearing his canines.  
“Turns out he’s an alright fella, and a big softie too,” he jested, poking the drummer in the chest.  
John raised an eyebrow at the interaction, and the light blush on Ringo’s face.  
“He’s not only big when he’s soft, George, I’d prepare well if I were you,” Ty O’Brien, the lead on _The Hurricanes_ , joked. George turned beet red at the remark, frowning a big deal.  
“You’d know, now would you Ty?” he bit back.  
“No need to get snappy, little boy. Go on, go to your Mum, ey? You’re on next,” Ty kept snickering while leaving the room. George kept a scowl on his face. He didn’t like the alluding to him and Ringo being queer. There was no reason to, they were just friends. If they were queer, hell, Paul and John were married, George thought. Ringo came to him, with a warm smile on his face, to wish him good luck.  
“Rock the house down, will ya? So we all get an extra day off,” the smaller man joked. That did make the frown disappear. George’s warm brown eyes turned to him, staring in his big blue ones. Ringo felt a jolt go through his stomach, and George’s cheeks turned slightly pink.  
“I’ll try,” the guitarist said quietly. Their hands brushed, George’s hand lingered on the ring on the drummer’s pinkie. Ringo smiled softly at him, making George’s heart flutter. Their moment was broken by Paul and John shouting for George to come on stage and “leave ya boyfriend, will ye?”.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
“What the HELL do you think you’re doing, woman? John, get yer BITCH out of my cupboard!” George shouted, walking in anger towards John and Yoko. Ringo watched him with big eyes and an aching heart. He glanced at Paul, who sat at the piano, back straightened. He looked alerted, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. They both looked at each other for a moment, before returning to the scene before them. Both John and George, red-faced, glaring at each other.  
“She’s not a _bitch_ , George. She’s a capable woman. She didn’t know it were your digestives!” John hissed. Yoko looked at George, calmly.  
“You could have said I can’t take them,” she pointed out. George scoffed, shook his head.  
“My name is on that shelf, that usually means they’re mine, unless I decide to share them,” he told her, rolling his eyes.  
“Don’t you roll your eyes at her, what are you, 17?” John chided, gritting his teeth in annoyance. Why were they having a fight over fucking biscuits anyway?  
“You call me childish? You? Of all people John. You’re not even interested in making this album, dancing and snogging around like a couple of teenagers!” George exclaimed angrily, gesturing with his hands.  
“You know what, Harrison? Why don’t you quit. Like last time. Why don’t you quit and we can get Clapton. He’ll at least LISTEN to both me and Paul, unlike you with your thick head, only interested in your own songs,” John flapped out. Everyone in the room gasped, then it turned so quiet you could hear a needle drop. George was taken aback. He didn’t know what to say. He turned as white as a sheet, turned around and walked away. Ringo got up at the same time as Paul. They nodded at each other in understanding. Paul went after John, Ringo tried to catch up with George.  
“George, wait, wait for me!” he pleaded. The long-legged guitarist didn’t slow down.  
“George, please. Don’t leave me alone,” Ringo tried, again. George stopped and turned around. He was shaking like a leaf and looked on the verge of tears.  
“You’ll have Clapton, you’ll probably like him better than me too,” he said with a wavering voice, thick and full of emotions.  
“I’ll never like anyone better than you, Georgie. Never,” Ringo admitted with a small voice, his big eyes watering and looking even more melancholic than before. He looked like sadness impersonated.  
George sighed, but didn’t come closer. He glanced over to Ringo, and stated:  
“I’ll cool off for a bit, and then I’ll be back, Rings. For you, I’ll be back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://foreverandtayways.tumblr.com/ is my beta, I'll be updating the previous chapters with additions soon c:
> 
> Chronologically not right but hey it's fanfiction not a proper history paper xD


	5. Everyone's weaving it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! We didn't have any internet at our dorm for days now, and I had a lot to do for uni :')
> 
> Have fun!

The trip to Esher was silent. George didn’t even feel like turning on the radio, just… Soaking in his anger, frustration, sadness. Wallowing in self-pity. And Richard’s fucking sad eyes. He felt a tear run down his cheek. He wasn’t about to cry, oh no. No. As he drove up to Kinfauns, Pattie and his house in Esher, he felt trapped. George hoped she’d be out of the house, since he wanted to be alone. He really hated to be seen crying. He stopped in front of the colourfully painted garage door, squeezing the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. He really wanted to just stomp everything and scream as loud as he could. Instead, he tried to calm himself down with meditation. After around fifteen minutes he felt good enough to head inside.  
“Pattie? I’m home!” he yelled. No reaction, except for the cats meowing, which told George that Pattie was most likely out. He picked up the fluffy white cat first, smooching her and petting the purring animal.  
“Hey girl! Who’s my beautiful girl, Corky? You are, yes you are!”  
He grinned as she jumped from his arms, to join their two Siamese cats. Circling around his feet, asking for food, they did relieve him from a bit of his anger and frustration. As much as meditation helped him, animals did even more for a person, he felt. George found a note on the fridge, from Pattie.  
  
_I’m out with Helen and the girls!_  
_See you later darling_  
 _xoxo_  
 _Pats_

He smiled at the note. Their marriage wasn’t always the most stable one, and he had a lot to contribute to that rockiness, but lately it had been… okay. Surprisingly. The evening was fairly uneventful, but George could feel an uneasy feeling creeping over him as he locked everything up.  
He decided to write a bit on “Isn’t it a Pity”, feeling like that would fit rather nicely with his mood, to write it all off and go to sleep. While he was writing, he felt his eyes droop close. He didn’t even register himself falling asleep at his table, pen in hand.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
_He couldn’t see. Everything was just black around him. But he did hear someone playing the drums in the distance. Laughter, too. Laughter he’d recognise out of a million people, because they had been thick as thieves through the years. He decided to walk towards the noise. Perhaps Ringo could help him._  
 _He entered a room, much like George Martin’s producer’s cabin, with thick glass in front of him, but no door. At the other side of the room were John, Paul, Ringo and… a guitarist. He couldn’t see the man, but it wasn’t Clapton. Or was it? They seemed to have a great time, the guitarist doing exactly what Paul asked of him. George looked at Ringo. His smile was a little sad, and somehow seemed forced. He didn’t seem to join in with the banter, either, like he would with George. The band left, and George tried to catch Ringo’s eye by hitting the glass and shouting at him. Ringo looked up after he had put his coat on, lip wobbling, and shook his head._  
 _“No,” George gasped. He turned around to look for a door, to run after the drummer, but all he saw was a desk with a newspaper on it._

_**BEATLES PRESENT NEW GUITARIST, HARRISON FIRED**_

_George read through the article, a lump forming in his throat. It had all his fears in there: John and Paul talking about the hard time George gave them, his stubbornness and him wanting to have more songs on the albums. John praising Eric, talking him down; Paul stating that he was never more than his little brother and just a good guitar player. No mentions of Ringo, though.  
As he flipped through the paper, he also saw another header:_

_**ANOTHER HIT FOR HARRISON, DIVORCES BOYD**_

_With Pattie going in great detail what was wrong with him: the cocaine, the perpetual anger, him pretending to be enlightened but still searching for what he wanted in life. Even hints at… queerness._  
 _He swallowed. This couldn’t be true. In that same newspaper, private photos of him and Ringo in Hamburg, Paris, America. Of them snuggling up, when George was ill with his yearly tonsillitis, of them together in the couch in the George V Hotel, sleeping. Little pictures he took of Ringo whenever he did something endearing or funny. George felt sick to his stomach. His head started to ache, and he felt panicked. He looked around frantically, ready to escape this room, but the walls seemed to come closer every time. George’s breath got stuck in his throat, he felt constricted, choking on his own lungs. He couldn’t_ speak, _or cry, so he just sat down, burying his face in his knees_ like _he’d always done when he felt like this. It was cold and dark in the room, he could hear laughter from outside. Paul, John, Ringo, all giggling about. Without him. Pattie with her girlfriends. Even Eppy_ …  
  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

George jerked awake, his back wet with sweat, heart pounding. He was breathing heavily and felt tears streaming down his face as he slowly lifted his head from the table. He tried to calm down, but noticed that it didn’t work. His head was swimming, he couldn’t empty it for meditation. He tried to count his breathing. At least that worked a bit. Until he was reminded of parts of his dream. He couldn’t hold back anymore and started sobbing. For his lost youth, lost on the dirty road of the Reeperbahn, in the clubs and ballrooms they played as young men. For his loss of privacy, when they got big. For Pattie, who deserved a better man, someone who could allow his sensitive side to show. For Ringo, who had felt like an outsider before, and was his only real mate at this moment. For Paul, who had his heart and soul in their music, who wanted to do so much more. For John, who was falling into the black tar pit that was heroin, and for Yoko. He had been so horrible to her. Everyone had been. He cried for his mother, who was terminally ill with cancer. For his Da, alone in their old house in Liverpool. And most of all he cried for himself. For his younger self who wanted so much more out of life than just this gilded cage. For all the rage, the frustration, all the love and friendship he couldn’t express. For the young boy, who didn’t have any ambition in life than to be a guitar player. A good one, at that. That boy didn’t want to end up like him, sobbing in a too big house that had costed so much money, with everything he wanted at his fingertips. For the price of his freedom.  
He remembered how well Paul and he got along, how deep their friendship was. And how broken and tattered it was now.  
  
He had to realise it for himself: being a Beatle meant being lonely. Forever.


	6. Coming on strong all the time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the big hiatus! I had a block jffjjgf

“Hello? Is anyone in?”  
Paul opened the door to a still empty studio. They had agreed on arriving early today, so why wasn’t anyone around? He frowned, sighing deeply. He decided to go and put the kettle on, at least it’d be something he could do instead of sitting around.  
On his way back to the studio, he was greeted by Mal, who looked slightly worried at Paul.  
“Everything okay, Paul? You look dead tired,” he mentioned, subconsciously rubbing at his under-eye area. Paul scratched his beard, both of them now heading to the kitchen. He knew he looked like shit warmed up, he did own a mirror, thank you. It was just… He felt like he was the only one really carrying the Beatles at this moment. He wanted them to last at least a few years longer, perhaps tour again after this film. He told Mal this, and he nodded along. Ever since Brian died, he felt like he had to be the one in charge.  
“Of course you want it to last, this has been your life for over a decade. All of your lives. I think if you can get George to tour, John will cave too. Ringo goes wherever you go, too,” Mal tried to reassure Paul with a light smile, and added: “Perhaps you just need to ask Yoko if she wants to go on tour, and John will follow,” he snickered. Paul rolled his eyes at the remark, but grinned.  
“That’s not how I’ll get George on tour though, Mal. They’ll scratch each other’s eyes out,” he added, dumping the right amount of teabags into the big pot, before flooding them with hot water. It made for a mean image in his head, it wasn’t at all nice and proper to wish someone harm, especially the wife of one of your mates.  
“You know, she’s been treating some of the staff… not really like staff,” Mal hesitated, “More like, I don’t know, maids and servants. At least that’s what I heard,” he added quickly.  
Paul stared at him, eyes big, blinking rapidly, eyebrows raised in surprise.  
“Really now? Odd,” he answered, shortly, seemingly turning into inner thought. He really didn’t want to think of her badly, but the more he heard from people who weren’t John, the less he could. She seemed manipulative, and keen on keeping John away from him.  
Mal seemed to feel uncomfortable, shifting on his feet.  
“Well, must be off, putting everything in order for today’s recording,” he said, smiling. He patted Paul on the shoulder in encouragement. Paul smiled back, but was too lost in though and mapping out this day to really answer him back anything. He decided to bring the tea pot with him, and write down a to-do list. And perhaps a few of his worries. Like the drugs John seemed to do. A lot more harmful than their usual reefahs. Even more harmful than LSD. He had heard the stories around heroin, having been offered it twice up until now, and only using it once on accident. It seemed a black tar pit you can’t escape from easily, and now John was trapped in that web. It hurt Paul’s heart, knowing that where part of John’s soul and joi de vivre was captured and buried away. If only there was some way to get him back to the band, then perhaps George would give in, too.  
If any of the two would come back, that is.  
He heard the door to their studio creak, and looked up from his writing. It was Ringo, looking very sleepy and somewhat sad, still, his big blue eyes red rimmed. But he did give Paul a little smile.  
“Morning, Macca. Had an alright night?” he asked, seating himself next to Paul. Paul huffed a little. Of course he didn’t sleep well after yesterday. Who would? So he didn’t even make the effort to mention it.  
“Mary has been really fussy, we think she’s coming up with a cold or something else. You?”  
Ringo looked at him, one arm slung across his stomach, hunched shoulders and a sad face making clear he didn’t feel well about it either, but they never talked about emotions.  
“Zak’s been fussy too, he’s got something with his stomach. Mo is taking him to the doctor’s today,” he answered. Paul knew how worried Ringo was over his boy, because he’d been in and out of hospitals so many times. So he tried to smile at the man, encouragingly. The drummer wouldn’t return it, just sat there, playing with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt.  
The door creaked again, this time revealing the director and everyone else involved in the movie. They greeted each other, moving out of their way.  
As they both sat in a lost corner, the door opened again. _We really should have it oiled,_ Paul thought, before frowning as he saw George enter. The guitarist didn’t look too well, white as a sheet, bags under his red-rimmed eyes. Great. They all looked like shit for the movie.   
Ringo seemed to perk up, and got up to meet George who was talking to Mal for a short second.  
Paul could hear a faint “You came back,” from the drummer, who got wrapped in George’s arms immediately.  
“Of course I did, Rings, for you,” he heard the guitarist say. As George let the drummer go, he tucked a strand of hair behind Ringo’s ear. It was a soft gesture. They both smiled at each other like they could chase their problems away like that. As if they… Paul chased that thought out of his head. He couldn’t deny he felt jealous at them, still. It once would have been him, too. Getting bear hugs from the youngest member of their merry troupe. Him and John. Guess he and John got on George’s nerves enough to not deserve them anymore, which saddened Paul a lot.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Liverpool, February 1958**

“He looks even younger than you, Paul, and you look like you’re ten with those puffy cheeks!” John exclaimed. Paul frowned, puffing out his chest. Couldn’t John see how much talent George had?  
“He can play ‘Raunchy’ perfectly, to the _note_ , and you’re dismissing him for being so young? He knows more chords than we both do!” he argued back. The Quarry Men wouldn’t get any more gigs if they didn’t find better musicians, and George was the best he knew.  
“Don’t tell me you aren’t embarrassed to hang out with him, you’ve complained about him enough,” John retorted. It was true, that boy really clung onto him like a starfish, even worse when you shared a bed with him. Paul sighed.  
“Just give him a chance, John,” he looked up to the older boy, eyes pleading. He knew John had a soft spot for him when he needed something. The older man seemed to have noticed his exact move, and folded his arms.  
“Because you ask so nicely, Paul,” he finally gave in. Paul gave him the biggest smile and would have hugged him if their pride wasn’t in the way.  
“Will you come with me to tell him? His Mum is going to be so happy about his!” Paul offered, awaiting John’s answer youthful enthusiasm. John huffed but nodded, already making his way out of Paul’s home.  
  
George looked dumbfounded, his biscuit hovering just before his lips. Louise clapped her hands in glee, very happy for her boy.  
“You’re pulling my leg, you,” the youngster brought out, frowning. It looked comical, those big eyebrows on that young face, it made both John and Paul laugh. Which made George frown even more, putting his tea and biscuit down.  
“I think they’re serious, love,” his mother assured him. George started to laugh, jumped up and tackled the others in a big hug on the couch.  
“Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you!” he rattled on, small, bony arms around John’s neck. Paul was snickering next to him, glad someone else could be starfished from now on.  
“Get off you qu-,” John started, only to get muffled by the very enthusiastic teenager’s arm when he kissed his cheek, which made the eldest boy to shove George off him and the couch. The sight was so funny, Paul had to hold his stomach because it hurt so much from laughing. George sat up, hair springing in all directions, with a big goofy smile on his face still, his little fangs showing. The combination of his hair, his ears and his big round face made him look very young, but Paul didn’t mind. He loved that boy like another brother. He loved the way George looked at him in this moment, with adoration and hope in his eyes. George stood up and held out his arms to invite Paul into a hug. Paul rolled his eyes because he felt like he had to, but he enjoyed the feel of George’s lite body against him. The warmth he radiated, and the softness of his soul.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Aight?” Paul was startled out of his daydream by George, who looked at him quizzically.  
“Yeah, yeah, I was… far away,” he replied. George nodded, hesitated as if he wanted to add something.  
“I… I really want to stick around for this album, you know,” he finally brought out, looking at his feet. Paul put his hand on the guitarist’s shoulder, to tell him it’s okay.  
“I understand, George. Maybe… maybe I didn’t think this through. Maybe…” he paused, weighing his words.  
“Maybe you don’t have to do this alone, Paul. We’re all still here,” George finished for him, his bright dark brown eyes shining with sincerity and warmth. Somehow this made him tear up, but he tried to hold it back.  
“Thanks mate,” was all he could bring out, nodding at the youngest member of the group. He suddenly realised how young they all were. They sure didn’t feel like it. It’s like all the fame and pressure aged them by ten years.  
“Look at us, being three old melancholic men, ey?” Ringo quipped from where he was seated.  
“Where’s John, though?” George asked. Both men shrugged their shoulders. They hadn’t heard from Lennon since yesterday.  
As if he was summoned, Lennon stormed in the room, the door letting out a mighty creak.  
“Can someone please handle that fucking door!” he mumbled, to nobody in particular. Paul huffed out a laugh, welcoming the guitarist with a cuppa.  
“Where’s Yoko?” Ringo asked, laying out the small percussion instruments they were going to use today.  
“On her way, she’s had a call from her lawyer. She’s almost officially divorced,” John said, sighing in contentment. Paul smiled at him, he was glad for John.  
He’d always support his friend, however much they fought nowadays. He hoped John still thought the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can contact me at my tumblr as well! chapmanspipe.tumblr.com for all your questions, prompts (if anyone's interested in that) and eh just random shit xD


	7. Even Those Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and words of love! It means a lot to me that you like this story djdjf  
> I hope I can keep up the quality c:

As they all set their instruments up to start rehearsing “Oh Darling”, and the camera crew went to work, Ringo was a little distracted, fiddling with the screw on his hi-hat. He had written a few lines to a song that had formed itself in his head, and he wanted to show them to either Paul or George. The latter would probably be the best choice, eventually. It’s best to not put more stress on Paul, as he’ll see it as his duty to help Ringo and take over the song, to produce something that meets his standards.  
“Something the matter, Rings? You were miles away,” came a soft voice from the right, at the foot of his drums. Must be George, that was his spot there. Ringo tried to look down, unfortunately he was to small to actually see the guitarist.  
“Yeah, well, I have an idea for a song, I’ll talk to ya about it in our midday break,” he answered, hearing an affirmative “Aaah” from the other man. Paul was frowning at George, not having caught the first part of the short conversation.  
  
As the day progressed, they moved on to “One after 909”, one of Paul and John’s eldest songs. The filmcrew seemed to really like it, asking Paul about the origins of it, which he happily provided.  
“It’s one of our first songs you know. We never really thought much of it when we got more popular, because the lyrics weren’t as good as we wanted them to be,” John nodded, affirming what the bass player had said.  
Paul continued: ”We were together all the time after school, you know. Writing away all the time, coming up with songs. It’s how we wrote some of our hits. On John’s bedroom floor,” he looked at John, smiling at the memories of them shouting lines at each other, one dirtier than the other, until Mimi had had enough of their antics. John seemed to have the same thoughts as he had, grinning back at him with a warm, soft look in his eyes.  
“You’ve progressed a lot,” one of the crew members remarked. They all had to laugh.  
“Quite an understatement,” John added. If they hadn’t taken the leap, though, with Parlophone… Who knows where they had ended up going.  
  
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**London, 1962**

Brian Epstein sat behind his desk, hands in his hair. How was he going to bring the news to the boys? And what was he going to do next? He had depleted all his resources. _All but one._ But he didn’t want to be on a _comedy_ label. Epstein reached for the phone. He was going to have to disappoint the boys once again. A no from Decca. A no from EMI… He sighed, dialling Mimi’s number to inform John about this. The boy would be furious, accuse him of doing nothing to help them get a record label, like last time. Before he could dial the number fully, Freda came in, a telegram in her hand. She was smiling, looking very pleased with whatever she was holding.  
“Telegram from Mr Coleman, Mr Epstein,” she informed him, elegantly handing the piece of paper over to her boss.  
“Take a seat, please, Freda,” he said, curious about the telegram. Brian read the words. _No, this can’t be_. He read them again, Freda starting to giggle at his reaction.  
“Is this real?” he asked her, eyes big and full of hope. She nodded, and they both started to laugh.  
_This was the best news I could get right now. Thank… fuck! I’ll remember to recite an extra Hallel next holiday,_ he thought. Now to call the boys with some good news. And then, off to see one George Martin.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Paul shook his hand, trying to loosen the cramp that had decided to settle there. It’s been a long day, but he felt like they had accomplished nothing. At this rate they were never going to finish the album. He sighed in frustration, slamming his hand down on the piano, which caused a ruckus. George almost fell of the chair he had decided to sit on, Ringo dropped his drum sticks. John was nowhere to be seen.  
“We haven’t done anything all day. It’s good to, like, practice, but guys. We need to do this. Work on our songs. _Produce an album,_ ” he looked at the pair, eyes stern. Yes, Paul was in a pissy mood, but it wasn’t exactly his fault. He was trying to get them to write and do their songs, pushing them to get on with it. He was met with the hard stare and a sour looking George.  
“We’re doing our best, Paul, with what we’re given,” he said, sounding very on edge, it was best to leave him with Ringo for a bit.  
“Well, why don’t you work with Ringo for a bit? On his song? If you’d like, of course,” Paul tried, a bit friendlier this time, to show his good intentions. Ringo seemed to understand what he was trying to do, grabbing George by the arm.  
“I think that’s a grand idea, don’t you Geo?” he said, smiling faintly at the taller man. Paul saw his hand lightly stroking the other’s arm. They always had a very touchy-feely friendship.  
George looked into Ringo’s big blues, _the bluest eyes in the world_ , he thought, and nodded. It was a good idea to get away from Paul for a moment.  
“I’ll go next doors, then,” the older man informed them, smiling at them both. It was great that they could at least agree to small things and changes. They wished each other good luck with their songs as Paul left the room.  
“Can someone please ring up John for the love of God? He has to be here,” he shouted into the room before closing the door.  
  
George breathed out heavily, relieved that Paul was gone for a moment. He turned to Ringo, a big smile on his face.  
“So, for your song. Can you play me what you already have?” he asked the drummer, trying to sound as encouraging as he could. Ringo’s eyes lit up and he sat down at the piano, playing a small tune on it. It sounded very happy, a change from all the heavy songs the others were writing.  
“Do you want to hear the lyrics to it?” Ringo wanted to know. George nodded, seating himself next to the drummer. They both grinned at each other warmly, Ringo felt pretty fuzzy at all the love George was trying to send him. He cleared his throat and sang.

 _I'd like to be under the sea_  
In an octopus's garden in the shade  
He'd let us in, knows where we've been  
In his octopus's garden in the shade

He stopped as he had run out of words, not really knowing what to do.  
“I… I don’t have more, I’m sorry,” he apologised, smiling sheepishly. George laughed out loud.  
“If there’s anything I learned, it’s that it’s good to just write what you have in your head, even replacing some words with nonsense. John taught me that,” he advised Ringo, slinging an arm around the man’s shoulders, bringing his forehead to the side of Ringo’s head, humming lightly before letting go.  
“It was good, though. I love it,” he admitted, softly. Ringo turned towards George, a broad grin on his face, his blue eyes warm and glittering with happiness. He hugged the guitarist shortly, thanking him.  
George felt sorry for Ringo, he really did. Such a soft man, so happy and lively, surrounded by all this drama and them causing it. He had ran away too, once. And he wouldn’t be around when not needed, but nobody could really blame him. It wreaked havoc on Ringo’s being, when they all fought. He had been such a good friend to George, all through the years. It made George’s heart soar to help him now with his own song. He deserved it, after all.

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**Hamburg, 1960**

George’s stomach rumbled in protest. He _needed_ food, and quick.  
“Lenny, I’m hungry, can we go get some food now?” he whined, true to his age. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Pete imitated him, with an even higher pitched voice.  
John and Stu laughed, Paul turned to the youngest member of their band, his eyes warm and understanding. He knew how strained George’s relationship with food was, and why he was so particular on getting food within reasonable hours.  
“We only have money for one meal a day, Georgie. I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait a little,” he clapped the boy on the back, returning to the front of the troupe. They were on their way to the Kaiserkeller, passing a lot of chip shops, the smell invading George’s nose, making him uncomfortable and nauseous. It stressed him out, being hungry. For as loving his family was, love didn’t fill a belly and they had gone hungry one too many times.  
It was warm inside the Kaiserkeller, and the air was thick with smoke and sweat, the floor sticky. Rory and The Hurricanes were playing, so it was very crowded.  
“Well, if these people stay for us, boys, were going to do well,” John proclaimed cheerily, grinning from ear to ear. Paul nodded, agreeing.  
“Their drummer looks nasty, with that grey streak,” George remarked. The drummer, in his pink suit, looked very good, though. George tried to shush his mind from straying further away into how nice the man looked. Pete turned to him, frowning.  
“He looks queer, in that pink suit. Perhaps someone suitable for you, son,” he laughed, getting an eye roll from Stu. Suddenly, Paul started waving at someone, who turned out to be Astrid.  
“Hello everyone! We’ve been waiting for you, Klaus is already at the back stage,” she explained, smiling at everyone. She approached George, holding out her arms for a hug, which he gladly accepted. She giggled when he let go, putting a smile on his face, too. He craved hugs, but no one wanted to give them any. Even Paul stopped after one too many remarks from John. The others thought it was childish or even _queer_. What was wrong with showing a friend how much you like them? Astrid always called him “the lost one”. His stomach rumbled again, he smiled apologetically at her. She frowned and grabbed his hand, studying his thin wrist.  
“You lost weight, George,” she observed, looking very worried. He pulled his wrist out of her grasp, pulling a sour face. He didn’t need mothering, thank you very much.  
“We all lost weight, Astrid,” Stu mentioned, “It’s because we work so much,” Astrid frowned at them all, just now noticing how sunken in their cheekbones looked, and how tired their faces were.  
“The offer still stands, John,” she alluded, getting an irritated huff back from John.  
“We don’t need your mothering, Astrid,” he said shortly, while opening the door to the back stage.  
The Hurricanes were already off stage, drinking beer in the couches, legs up on stools and each other. Klaus stood in the corner, talking to the drummer, who showed nothing but tired smiles. George was intrigued, the man must be less nasty than he looked if Klaus was talking and laughing with him. He made his way over, repeating in his head what he had to say. _First, say hi, then “I’m George Harrison” and then state you’re in the Beatles, can’t be hard_. The two men turned his way when he was close to them. George stopped in his tracks when his eyes met with _Ringo’s_.  
“You have the bluest eyes in the world,” he brought out, as in a daze. Caught in these huge pools of blue. The man laughed, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, and came closer. George nodded at Klaus.  
“It’s also nice to meet you, George I presume?” Ringo asked, making the youngster smile.They shook hands, and George noticed he had soft hands for a drummer, he felt really warm. As they let go, Ringo was still looking down at George’s hand, frowning.  
“You really are skinny, aren’t you? When did you last eat, boy?” he asked, worry audible in his voice. It was a warm worry, like Astrid’s. He huffed and rolled his eyes before mumbling “ _this morning”_ , pulling a sulky face, like the teenager he was.  
“I’m not a boy. Not anymore,” he proclaimed, a little bit irritated at everyone’s words about his body. He had always been very lanky, tiny and slim. Nothing changed much over the years anyway.  
Ringo had to laugh at the statement, though.  
“Three hairs on yer sack don’t make ya a man, lad,” he said, winking at George, who felt warm all over suddenly. He laughed at the drummer sheepishly. The guitarist sometimes forgot he was just seventeen. The man put an arm around him, leading both young men to the rest of the troupe, who were already sharing beers with the Beatles.  
“Come on, Rory, move yer ass. I want to sit too, and my young friend here too,” he shouted from across the room. Once over at the couch, he practically pulled George into his lap.  
“Be a good boy for daddy and don’t jiggle around too much, okay Georgie? Someone pass the boy one of those German sausages, the ones with the bread, he’s skin and bones, and I wish to change that,” Ringo pulled him back so he was leaning against the drummer. George just nodded and said a quiet thank you when he got the food. These people were _so_ drunk. But he found he did enjoy the feeling of Ringo’s hand, playing with his hair. How the man pulled him close and sometimes pressed his head close to George’s, almost nuzzling the side of his head. George let it all wash over him, like a warm blanket of the love and touch he craved.

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“Rings?” George suddenly spoke up, after fiddling with his guitar to find fitting chords to Ringo’s new song. Ringo hummed, so George would go on, looking up at the man with an open expression. His dark brown eyes were smouldering, looking right into him, firing his heart like embers to a dying fire.  
“Would you… Will you come and join me for dinner tonight? I can cook us something you like,” George asked, a little hesitantly. He didn’t know if Pattie was going to be around, but he guessed she wouldn’t. They’ve been having a rough patch again.  
Ringo grinned widely, nodding.  
“Of course I will, Geo. I always want to make sure you get enough into you, remember?” he added softly. George came back to the piano, seating himself next to the drummer.  
“You know. I think you deserve everything that’s good in the world. You’ve done so much for me, I don’t know how I’ll ever pay you back,” George said, eyes watering. He was getting emotional again, mentally slapping himself to get out of this funk. Melancholia was never a good look on anyone.  
Ringo put his arm around George’s waist, pulling him in closely. He kissed the younger man on the cheek and whispered:  
“You don’t have to. Staying close to me and being my friend is all I wish for,” he admitted, softly.  
George returned him with a peck on the lips, quick and soft.  
“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” he sighed, blushing, putting his arms around the drummer, who was also pink on the cheeks. They wrapped themselves in an awkwardly angled hug.  
They were each other’s rock, an anchor in the wildest sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and say hi at chapmanspipe.tumblr.com, I'm willing to write small things too :D


	8. Update info

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little update!

Hello everyone, I know it's been a while, but I had a lot to do the past 3 months.

Live had me down to not being able to write a lot :c

I'm writing on both fics so no worries :)

See you later!


	9. No-one's frightened of playing it

Paul sighed when he entered the empty room. It could be such a struggle to try and compromise all the time when George had something in his head. It added years to his age, to be quite frank. He was lucky Ringo had stepped in when he did. Ringo and George… They had always been very close, but lately, their friendship had turned into something else, almost. Paul decided it was best to try and not linger there with his thoughts. George was a real _bohémien_ , wanted to try everything at least once.

  
He filed this away for later. Maybe he could ask John, whether he had seen or noticed something. If he’d get John alone, that is. It felt like since Yoko was there, John was only reachable through official Apple office mail. On appointment only. Calling him got him in a bad mood, ringing at the door was a no-go. It saddened Paul. It was like Yoko had taken up his place, as a friend. As one of his closest friends. And then there were the drugs… Paul shook his head. It wasn’t his place to judge his friend. The black-haired man was sure John would return to him and to the band when he was ready. A bad feeling started settling over Paul’s stomach, though. He felt like he was holding on to something the others were ready to let go of. Like he was trying to get a dying horse to do just a few more miles.  
The thought of failure and the anxiety it brought weren’t exactly easy to put away, so he started plucking the guitar, letting his mind and fingers softly connect and lead him away from these doom scenarios. He found some nice chords, fitting to his song “Let It Be”. A little bit pleased with himself, he started practising older songs, too. If they were going to do this concert for the movie, they’d need to start on that too… Concerns for later, though. What was important now, was the new album. For the rest, he’d have to wait for the others to make decisions. It had always been like that. If only George and John would return to his side, like before… That would be nice.

 

 

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**Liverpool, 1957**

Paul ran as fast as he could, checking if Mike was following him closely. They really should change their habits on running late for the bus, this happened every single morning. They huffed and puffed, just on time to catch their bus to school. Mike saw his friends and joined them, Paul went to sit at his usual spot, in the back. Next stop was George’s, so he was embracing the calm before the overly talkative young boy would sit next to him and tell him all about what he was planning to do next. All about what he’d read in magazines or heard on the radio. It was endearing, but also slightly embarrassing and annoying that the boy would talk his ears off each morning. He didn’t have many friends, unlike Paul. Hazza wasn’t lonely or anything. He just picked his friends well. The older boy glanced up as they stopped at George’s, seeing a familiar head of hair outside. The boy caught his eyes, grinning widely. He looked like a vampire with those fangs.  
“Ah look who’s here boys! Dumbo, on his way to his boyfriend! Are you going to serenade him, Georgie?” Paul heard someone upfront say. George’s smile faltered, and he started frowning. The group of boys up front laughed loudly and harshly as George passed them and almost fell on his face, turning beet red. The lad was too goodhearted to really answer his bullies, and instead rather focused on Paul.  
“You’re going to have to confront them one day, Geo. They’ll never stop,” the black-haired boy advised him, only to be met by a shrug from the other one. It looked comical, George in his too-big hand-me-down clothes under his uniform. His neon socks. The boy liked to wear layers, to hide his skinny frame. Paul had prepared for a talkative friend but instead was met with a slightly silent boy, who was picking at a scab on his hands. George looked up at Paul, his brown eyes big and hopeful.

  
“Do you have canteen duty this week? Da had been quite ill, so he couldn’t go to work,” he brought out, hesitantly. The older boy smiled at him warmly, putting a hand on his shoulder to comfort the younger one, and nodded shortly. Paul knew that he’d get a hug from the boy if he hadn’t told him that he didn’t like it. So instead he got the biggest smile from his friend, and a hand on top of his.  
For once George had decided to not talk all the way to school, just the contact of their hands seemed enough. Paul didn’t retract his hand, knowing how much George liked to express his feelings, as his parents had taught him to do so.

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Paul jumped up a little, lost in thought, when George and Ringo entered his little space, John in tow. John looked unkempt, his hair all tousled and beard growing wild. Nothing like the clean-looking man he used to be. Even his glasses looked stained and smeared. His clothes, however, looked meticulous, making Paul think the hair, the beard and glasses were, perhaps, on purpose. He attempted to smile warmly at John, but was met with a little empty-eyed stare instead. Paul felt a sadness wash over him, not knowing what was going on with John. Normally, when Paul smiled, John smiled even wider. George, again, broke his stream of thought by asking him something.  
  
“I know my song is not really top priority, Paul, but I feel like I want us all to deliver something good. Something worth being on the album, y’know,” his youngest friend remarked, furrowing his brows some. Paul turned to him, smiling at the remark.  
“Of course, Geo. We didn’t put maximum effort in our last rehearsal, after all. It’s a good song! Let’s go back to the other room, yeah? So I can show you the bassline I was thinking of,” he answered, trying to put as much warmth in his eyes and voice as he could. He got a smile back from George, his face looking a little brighter, too, his brows not knitted together for once. Paul grabbed his bass and a guitar, and they made their way to the main studio. The bassist turned to John, keeping an open and inquisitive facial expression.  
“And you John? You said earlier this week that you might have an idea or two, some new songs that were a-brewing,” he said, trying to imitate an American accent to bring some lightness into their conversation. John had been uncharacteristically quiet, and it worried Paul a lot. John just nodded in answer, face blank. Paul was taken aback slightly, letting out a small “Oh, okay”. Where had the stormy John gone to? The loud, joking Lennon? The curly-haired boy he met that one day at the fête…  
  
Paul stood still in the hallway, looking at his friends. How they have changed, over all these years.

 

 

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**6 th July 1957, Woolton, Liverpool**

“Come ON Paul, we’re going to be late!” Ivan shouted, running to their bus stop. Paul rolled his eyes, they still had a few moments, anyway. His friend always liked to blow things out of proportion.  
Chatting and tittering all the way to Woolton, they both got more excited the closer they came. Paul was gripping his guitar tightly, like it would run off on its own if he’d let it go. Ivan had promised him this band was going to be pretty good.  
As they arrived, they saw a lot of girls gathering around a small platform. A group of young men was gathered on it, with the most remarkable one up front at the mic. Plaid shirt with rolled up sleeves, hair up in a quiff, playing a four-string guitar. Paul stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t sure why, but something about this young man captured him completely. He had a small feeling that he needed to play to this man. That was the way. The way to what, he didn’t know.  
  
After the band was done and got off the little stage, Ivan took him backstage where the boys were celebrating. The room already smelled of spilled beer, smoke and sweat. Paul felt a slight tingling, all from the tips of his nose to the tips of his fingers. A slight urge to go and pee also settled in, but he ignored him. The boys had noticed him and Ivan, cheering and jeering them while gathering in a circle.  
The frontman spoke up first:  
“Ivan! You made it mate!” he smiled widely, clapping the other boy on the back. He then mentioned at Paul.  
  
“So who’s this then? His Mum turned you into his babysitter yeah?” the guitarist was looking straight at the youngest in the room now, his eyes glittering in joy. Paul rolled his eyes, although the comment only hurt a little. He wrinkled his nose when the brown-haired boy threw an arm around him, leaning in close. He smelled like alcohol and sweat.  
  
“What, lost your tongue?” he laughed, eyeing the beaten up guitar case in Paul’s hand, lifting one eyebrow sceptically.

“Do we play, by any chance? Come on, lad, play us a tune!” the older youngster exclaimed, smacking the younger one’s shoulder playfully. His cries were picked up by the rest of his merry little band.  
  
Ivan smiled, encouragingly, so Paul unpacked his guitar.  
“It’s the other way up, boy.” A guy called Pete exclaimed from the back, which emitted laughter from the other boys. But Paul only smiled, confidently. He knew he was better than any of these guys. So he started playing “Twenty Flight Rock”, singing the words to the song too, as he had noticed that none of them were able to when they played earlier on. All the boys gathered around him, seemingly in awe about his playing. Especially the lad in plaid, who couldn’t take his eyes off Paul.  
  
“Want another one?” he asked the crowd that had gathered around him, while plucking a few chords. The tall man in plaid laughed, looking at the rest of the band before extending his hand to Paul.  
“My name’s Lennon, John Lennon. I’m the leader of the Quarrymen, and I decide who can join,” he said, with a serious face. Paul nodded and tried to swallow his nervousness. His eyes were big, accentuated by his long lashes, curvy eyebrows and youthful face. He looked a bit like a girl, John wondered if it would be different if he’d wear his glasses.  
  
“So what do we think boys? Can we let him in?” he grinned when all of them cheered a wholesome “Yes Johnny!”. Paul’s face lit up, and he wore a broad grin the reminder of the day. George would be so glad to hear this news. Finally, he got in a band. His life as a musician could start from today on.

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“… Paul?”

John’s slightly nasal voice woke Paul up from his daydreaming. He looked up, right in the other man’s face, who looked lightly amused, if he could be judged by the twinkle in his eyes behind the round glasses.  
  
Maybe they weren’t that different from how they were as youngsters. Maybe…


End file.
